


The Dance

by shallwebegin



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 16:53:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2475509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shallwebegin/pseuds/shallwebegin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Janine decides it's time that a certain detective learned the consequences of meddling with a woman's heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hell Hath No Fury

Sherlock Holmes. That lying, conniving, blackhearted scoundrel.

Janine threw the newspaper on her desk. It had been nearly a year since she had seen him, lying half dead in that hospital room. The bounder. He didn't have any right to be making her feel sympathetic and worried about the hole in his chest that day, and he didn't have any right to be distracting her now. 

She remembered that day. After the red haze of fury had faded, she realized she should have known how it would end. Still, seeing him all pale and wounded had managed to squelch much of her righteous rage.

He had really stepped in it that time. She never heard of anyone being arrested for shooting the Great Detective, but since it happened in her old boss's office and considering how HE ended, she figured Sherlock had evened the score himself.

Still, she had been so busy the past year with the restructuring of Magnussen's company, and then her promotion to head up the marketing division, that Sherlock had nearly slipped her mind. Nearly.

The headline screamed, "Genius Detective Solves the Professor and the Painting Mystery!" 

Wasn't that just like him, to be meddling with a secret society. The man was lucky he had only been shot once, she thought. In fact he was entirely too lucky in many ways. 

Her attempt to embarrass him had only enflamed his female fans. That might be considered punishment considering the man himself, but it didn't begin to even the score. 

She thought of those long nights curled against him reading books and wishing he were a different sort of man. And that made her think of that time he decided a woman's satisfaction was a puzzle to be solved. She barely survived that. The man did like to focus on a problem and worry it to death, she thought, fighting the smile that crept to her lips. 

And the arguments over the latest policies and laws. He hadn't been the least bit concerned when her Irish temper got the best of her. He had favored that tea cup she flung at his stubborn head but then he decided to use his newfound research to distract her and hadn't that been lovely? The wretch.

She decided that their score wasn't nearly settled and it had nothing to do with her missing him. Nothing at all. No, that man needed to be taught a lesson himself, she thought as she began to plan. She hadn't worked for Magnussen all those years without learning the value of a good plan. 

A idea began to formulate. She smiled. Ah yes, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you like to dance? So be it, she thought. They really never had gotten that dance he promised her and it was time.


	2. Chapter Two

William Sherlock Scott Holmes was in trouble. His felt his phone vibrate and bit back a frustrated curse. It began yesterday with the first frantic call from his mother that she needed help digging holes as his father had apparently thrown his back out. Sherlock was hot on the scent of a secret society that terrorized members who tried to decamp, so of course he ignored her calls.

Members TRIED to decamp, because after the terror came the disappearance and presumed murder of said subjects. It had been highly irresponsible of his father to put Sherlock in this predicament when he was so close to solving the case. 

There were several other calls culminating in the final one last night, after arrests had been made and press informed. His mother, oblivious to what he was working on, as usual, left a cheery message not to worry because Mycroft had found experienced laborers and the problem was solved.

That was concerning enough this morning, when he finally listened to the message, to have him considering the trip to their cottage. Then he listened to her latest call from breakfast time.

She was apparently delighted with the workers but lamented the world they lived in that such nice young gardeners needed to carry weapons. Sherlock chuckled. 

Apparently General Banning, head of the SAS, had been playing poker with Mycroft again. The man, by all accounts, was competent enough to run the UK's most elite terror fighting force but he couldn't figure out how to beat Mycroft at a silly card game.

And that led to his problem. Mycroft kept leaving messages implying that since he solved their mother's problem, the least Sherlock could do was solve a little problem for him. 

The last time Sherlock tried to solve a little problem for Mycroft it had been that ridiculous case when Moriarty appeared to have returned from the dead. It took six months and several near-death experiences before they finally captured Moran, the real culprit. Mary had announced that if Mycroft put John in that much danger again, she would personally make him disappear. 

Sherlock wasn't sure who he would bet on between his brother and John's wife so it seemed best to avoid any requests, demands or threats from Mycroft regarding cases.

Then he heard the tell-tale creak on his stairs and sighed. Apparently Mycroft was not taking "no" for an answer.


	3. Chapter Three

"We have suffered a series of leaks from the Foreign Secretary's department," Mycroft told Sherlock without preamble when Anthea deposited Sherlock in his office. "We think we know the person responsible but we cannot determine how they are getting the information to the press. We would like you to pursue the investigation."

"Why should I?" Sherlock asked. 

"Because brother dear, if the operative releases the files we think are next, lives will be lost. Many lives."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. If he was a drama queen, Mycroft had to be the drama king. Still, he didn't have any cases lined up for this week and he could already sense the predatory creep of boredom. 

"I will consider it," Sherlock said. "Who do you think is the culprit?"

Mycroft handed him a folder with the previous leaks released in the Tattler, Daily Opinion and Morning News Digest. Interesting, they had all been Magnussen papers. Of course, now, the Magnussen corporation was run by a Board of Directors and their CEO, Donald Jameson. The media conglomeration still controlled those rags, however.

Anthea led him to the waiting car. Sherlock considered the case as he drove back to 221B Baker Street. For some reason, his attention kept wandering to Janine. It must be the Magnussen Media connection, he reasoned.

He had not seen her since she visited him in the hospital. There had been moments over the past months when he saw something particularly ridiculous in the news or noted some tidbit of absurdity in a case, but when he turned to share it with her, he was always surprised that she was gone.

First John, then Janine. Apparently he did not make a good flatmate, he told himself. That was a detail to file away in case he ever felt compelled to share his home with anyone else.

Back at his flat, he gave the file a more thorough review. There were three articles with embarrassing, but not earth-shattering leaks regarding British foreign affairs. There was a newspaper with letters circled which he saw deciphered in Mycroft's neat cursive: Chas. Golther.

The rest of the folder contained quite a lot of information regarding Charles Golther, a young man in the IT department at Whitehall. While he seemed to be clean, his position was perfect to intercept encrypted emails and his Network Engineering degree from UCMK near Bletchley Park certainly meant he possessed the skills for the breach.

That was where the trail ran cold. Golther may have hacked into encrypted correspondence, but how had he gotten the information to the papers? Initial surveillance had turned up no connection to the tabloids.

At lunch, Sherlock dressed in a disguise, slicking his hair back in a severe style and donning a short beard. Even his own mother would not recognize him. Of course, that wasn't saying much as she had one time left a playground with a little girl while she was distracted by a math problem and only realized her mistake when the police stopped her outside their Kensington flat. Sherlock of course had been the one to call the police and then waited patiently for her to eventually return for him. 

It was one of his favorite trips to the hell of a childhood playground. He used the time to identify marital status and employment history of all the joggers and dog walkers while blissfully left to his own devices.

He followed young Golther on his lunch break to an apothecary shop in Westminster. When Sherlock entered the shop, Golther shot him a nervous look before accepting the package they had waiting for him. 

Sherlock followed the prescribed tenants of flirting as he convinced the young clerk that he wanted whatever the other young man had purchased. She giggled and tried to talk him into some other teas but he was adamant. She gave him a regretful look and handed him the package. 

He searched through the leafy green concoction, the instructions for boiling herbal tea, and the plain package wrapping but found nothing that might further his investigation.

Frustrated, Sherlock paid one of his homeless network to follow Golther after work but the programmer retired to his flat and did not leave again that evening. Sherlock spent the time carefully diagramming the trail of information from Whitehall to the tabloids, trying to find a possible connection. Nothing captured his attention.

The next morning, a blurry-eyed Sherlock enjoyed his morning tea when Mycroft appeared, furious. "Have you seen the Tattler?"

Sherlock was about to tell him he didn't subscribe to the nonsensical drivel when he saw the folded newspaper under the teapot. Mrs. Hudson.

The front page led with a story about the impending conference between European leaders. The story quoted a confidential email in which the British ambassador to France likened the French President to a licentious pig in a feeding frenzy after lent. The French were not amused.

"This is a bloody disaster," Mycroft snarled. "Have you solved this yet?"

"The only stop your suspect made was to an herbalist in Chinatown. He purchased a package of herbs and paid cash. There did not appear to be any information changing hands," Sherlock offered in the clipped tone that had driven Mycroft mad since they were children.

"An apothecary," Mycroft said, considering. "Well that explains the other thing. Sherlock, you must keep on this. We need to figure out how Jameson is getting his information before he releases something deadly." 

Sherlock was distracted, wondering what the "other thing" was. He found it on page three.

"Sherlock Holmes, Firing Blanks." Initially bewildered by the headline, he found the explanation in the opening paragraph.

"The Great Detective Sherlock Holmes has been visiting an herbalist in Chinatown seeking help for a deficiency in the romantic department." 

Sherlock remembered the heart-shaped leaves in the apothecary baggie and grimaced. Horny Goat Weed. An aphrodisiac said to help with male impotence. He glanced at his brother whose eyebrow had shot nearly to his receding hairline. 

"For heaven's sake Mycroft. I bought the same package he purchased to search for clues. I found none."

"Solve this Sherlock. Now!" Mycroft said in that same threatening voice that heralded unimagined horrors as a child. Those usually involved telling their parents that Sherly was just dying to join the debate/choir/rugby team, if only their mother would register him. Sherlock shuddered. The man was born for strong-arm politics.

Sherlock donned a different disguise today, ruffling his hair into a mop and adding the casual blue denim uniform of a college student. Unfortunately, Golther exited the building only so far as to pick up a quick sandwich, then returned to his desk.

After Golther returned to the office, Sherlock waited in a coffee shop nearby. He considered other avenues of investigation waiting for the programmer to appear after work, and then it became more interesting. The suspect stopped by a costume shop on his way home. Now we are getting somewhere, Sherlock thought.

The young computer programmer tried several costumes before settling on a captain's uniform from one of those science fiction movies that seem to reappear every generation. As disguises for a budding espionage expert went, it wasn't very good.

Sherlock bumped into him and lifted the young man's wallet. He grabbed the nearest costume and ducked into a dressing room. Distracted, he snarled impatiently when a helpful attendant undressed him before plying him with the furry costume.

Once alone, Sherlock quickly scanned the contents of the wallet. When he saw the ticket to an upcoming comic con festival, he realized this was a waste of time. Unless Jameson had developed a sense of humor, Sherlock seriously doubted the comic con was related to the young man's current treachery.

He exited the changing cubicle under the guise of looking for a different costume and casually dropped the wallet on the floor near the checkout counter. Returning to his changing stall, Sherlock stripped down and handed the ever helpful sales clerk the wolf costume before looking for his own clothes. 

They were gone. All that remained was a deerstalker hat. When he called a salesperson over and asked for the woman helping him, he was informed no such person worked there. Frustrated by this monumental waste of time. Sherlock grabbed the hat and covered what he could. He nodded to the shocked clerk as he left the building and hailed a cab. 

He reached for the taxi's door when he heard the giggling. Turning, he saw the gaggle of teenage school girls avidly enjoying his predicament.

"Oh for God's sake," he growled and slid into the car.

He was beginning to have doubts that following Golther would provide the clues they needed. He noted that one reporter wrote several of the incriminating articles. The reporter had tried once to convince Sherlock to do an interview; perhaps it was time to tackle that end of this dilemma. Sherlock raced home, changed and rang the reporter.

Brand Galloway (that couldn't possibly be his real name, Sherlock deduced by the hesitating inflection when he answered using the name) jumped at the chance for an exclusive interview but insisted Sherlock meet him as he had an appointment that evening. 

When Sherlock arrived, it was at a rather disreputable looking "day spa" and the reporter was already preparing for a Swedish massage. Sherlock learned the reporter had won a couples session in a radio contest when the "therapist" handed him a robe. As he stripped for the second time that day, Sherlock noted this case was becoming one of the most frustrating of his entire career. It was invigorating.

After sixty minutes of poking and prodding, Sherlock emerged having learned that the tips for the stories arrived in anonymous emails that even Mycroft's people would have trouble tracing. Another dead end. 

He was even more annoyed when he opened his locker and found his clothing missing. At least this time he hadn't been left the deerstalker. This time, it was the fluffy costume from earlier. Knowing that society would look less dimly on the costume than nothing, he donned it and exited the building carrying the wolf's smirking head. 

The next morning the Daily Opinion carried a marquis header declaring, "Sherlock Holmes Bares All for Love." The article included the juicy details that he enjoyed a round of couples massage and "all its accoutrements", and featured the picture of his bum as he hailed the cab earlier in the day. 

He didn't even look at his phone as it began to ring.

"Woo-hoo," Mrs. Hudson called as she carried breakfast tea in. "Here you are, dear. You need to keep your strength up." Her eyes twinkled with amusement.

"I'm working a case, Mrs. Hudson," he growled but she just wiggled her eyebrows knowingly. "It's good to see you moving on. Live and let live I say."

The Morning News Digest carried an equally salacious article about his trip to the suspected massage parlor and his taste for the truly kinky, accompanied by a photo of him leaving the building wearing that ridiculous costume.

Sherlock sipped his tea as he considered this case. It had turned into one of the most interesting of his career but primarily because of the bizarre incidents that plagued him along the way.

His phone rang again, this time the caller ID showed John Watson. He couldn't begin to imagine explaining any of this to his best friend. 

Sherlock hadn't been so stumped by a case since the time he investigated Charles Augustus Magnussen based on the wholly-flawed assumption that the blackmail information was stored at Appledore House and could be destroyed.

Sherlock relaxed and took a steadying breath. There was something nagging him and he needed to peruse his own mind palace to see what clues he had overlooked this time. He began to review all the evidence, symbolically throwing out the dead ends and impossible leads.

"Oh!" His eyes snapped opened as he grabbed the file on Golther. He threw the papers onto the floor in a flurry until he found what he was looking for. He looked over the news page with the circled letters. 

"I am an idiot," he said. Then he noted something else. Something that could solve this case and get Mycroft off his back.

The phone rang again... Mycroft. He grabbed the phone. "Mycroft. I have it. I need something though." He explained what he needed and said he would be at Mycroft's office in thirty minutes. Then Sherlock sat back and enjoyed the rest of his tea as he considered what he should do about that other little problem.


	4. Chapter Four

"So Jameson received the secret messages through press releases from the Foreign Office? Ingenious," Mycroft said.

"Indeed. He guessed Magnussen had been blackmailing the Foreign Secretary's PR assistant. Once he figured out what she was hiding, he pressured her to provide information in the endless press releases sent by that office. The key was the anonymous clue you received... Not Golther's name but the sequential numbering of those letters- it provided the key to the code used in the news releases."

"Like Bacon's Cipher?" General Banning concluded.

Sherlock nodded. "It was Jameson who actually deciphered the messages and sent the anonymous emails to his own reporters using an encrypted internal system which wouldn't have shown up on your tracing methods."

"Because we were looking for items coming through external routers. Ingenious indeed," Banning said.

"Well, Miss Adams is being relocated to a non-classified job in our New Zealand office. She can't get into too much trouble there," Mycroft murmured.

Sherlock nodded. The administrative assistant was another of Magnussen's hapless victims. "What about Jameson?"

"Mr. Jameson suffered a rather nasty health scare overnight and resigned his position. He will be seeking treatment at a quiet facility in the Caribbean."

Sherlock wondered what Americans would think to know that Guantanamo Bay had become the warehouse for NATO allies' security risks. He understood that Jameson could never be tried; the embarrassment for the Foreign Office would be far greater than the damage he caused. And, he had been stopped before any truly damaging information was released, the French President's bruised ego aside.

"Well brother. It appears you have again proven your usefulness. It is good to have you back at work for us," Mycroft told him. "I believe it is your turn to deal with the parents this weekend."

Sherlock said nothing as his brother left the room and he saw the sympathetic look from Banning.

"He is bluffing," Sherlock told him.

"You sound quite certain," Banning replied.

"Mycroft is fully aware that I am not interested in working for him or his shadowy allies."

"I thought you meant your parents," Banning said. "Your mother is a very persuasive woman. She has convinced C Squadron to replace her rose bed this weekend." 

Banning sounded a bit awed. Sherlock could sympathize.

Banning shook his head. "There is one more person in this business still to be dealt with."

Sherlock knew where he was leading.

"We also believe the Marketing VP at Magnussen was involved," General Banning told hm.

Sherlock showed no response, other than a tick in the vein in his neck. 

The general continued. "Janine O'Hara. Considering the paper trail in this, she must have been involved."

"I can assure you that Miss O'Hara was not involved in Mr. Jameson's crimes," Sherlock told him.

The general considered. "I'm sorry, wasn't she your fiancée?"

"It's complicated," Sherlock said. "However, I am quite certain she was not involved in Jameson's plan."

The general shook his head." I appreciate what you've done for us here but you're not exactly an impartial witness for her."

Sherlock considered the man. "What if I could give you something else? Something more valuable than Miss O'Hara?"

He had the general's attention. "Such as?"

"Mycroft's tell," he said simply.

"Mycroft doesn't have a tell," Banning argued. "I have played poker with that man for a dozen years. He's not called the Iceman for nothing."

"I assure you, he does have a tell and I am willing to exchange it for Miss O'Hara's impunity." Sherlock held out a hand. "Do we have a deal?"


	5. The End

Janine opened the door to the cottage and lay her keys in the pottery bowl on the end table. It had been a long week and she was glad to see it end, she thought as she kicked off her heels. The fallout from a second CEO leaving the position so suddenly was extensive and it would be weeks before the corporate stocks recovered. She was glad she had listened to Sherlock's advice long ago and diversified her portfolio.

Sherlock. He had weathered the embarrassment she planned and come out smelling like an English rose, the stinker.

She had chilled a bottle of wine earlier and she would pay real money to soak to her chin in bubbles and down a good portion of the bottle. 

She stopped as it occurred to her that Maddie, her cat, was acting strangely. Instead of greeting her and leading her to the food bowl for a top up, she was cowering under the end table... and her pupils were dilated. The last time she had seen Maddie react that way had been... 

"Hello." The rich baritone could still turn her bones to jelly. Damn. 

"Sherlock Holmes. Have you added breaking and entering to your list of crimes?" she asked, disguising her racing heart with a sardonic smile. 

"I thought your message was an invitation," his voice purred.

"Chas Golther?" she asked innocently.

"And if you rearrange those letters?" he growled.

"Gotcha Sherl," she responded, amused.

"When you realized what Jameson was doing, you couldn't resist a bit of fun. Of course Mycroft would overthink your message and focus on young Golther," he said.

She shrugged. "Either way, I figured you'd get there eventually."

"Scheming, conniving, and patriotic," he said. "Who would have guessed?"

He walked toward her and pulled out a remote. Janine arched an eyebrow.

"It has been pointed out that I owe you a dance," he intoned. She swallowed hard as he dimmed the cottage lights and clicked the remote. 

Dead or Alive's "You Spin Me Round" began to play on her music system. He tossed the remote down and grasped her, pulling her up and against his chest. Her toes barely touched his feet. He began to swirl them around the cottage, dancing for both of them. 

The breathtaking dance whirled them though the cottage's cheery kitchen, down the hall and into her bedroom. Finally, he stopped, but continued to hold her tight. 

"You, woman, are nothing but trouble," that deep voice rumbled. And then he proceeded to show her what Sherlock Holmes could do with an unruly woman.


End file.
